Repatriation

A novella of World War 2

Bob DeGray

Copyright © 2015 Bob DeGray

All rights reserved.

Published by: WW2 Christian Fiction 15922 Camp Fire Road

Friendswood, TX 77546 USA

ISBN-13: 978-0-9965938-1-6

Picture credits: The front cover includes a picture of a Bowler’s hat from the St. John

Ambulance Brigade which bears a remarkable resemblance to the Nurse/Officer hats used by the Canadian Army.

The Saint John’s Ambulance Brigade picture was uploaded to Wikipedia

under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

The picture of the Teia Maru on the back cover was uploaded to Wikipedia as public domain under Japanese copyright laws.

The background image for the front and back covers is a royalty free

image from 123rf.com

The couple on the front cover is the author’s great-grandparents. The image is Copyright © 2015 Bob DeGray

CONTENTS

Dedication ..................................................................... iv

Acknowledgements ...................................................... iv

Chapter 1: The Teia Maru ............................................. 1

Chapter 2: The Fort Resolve ........................................... 8

Chapter 3: The Gripsholm............................................ 17

Chapter 4: The Fort Esperance..................................... 25

Chapter 5: The Laurentian .......................................... 31

Chapter 6: 623 Milton Road ...................................... 41

About the Author ....................................................... 51

Dedication

To the memory of Kay Christie and Anna May Waters, the nurses of C Force

Acknowledgements

This is a work of historical fiction. The main characters are all fictional and any resemblance to actual people living or dead is purely coincidental. However the main historical story, of the imprisonment and repatriation of the Canadian nurses, is as true to fact as I could make it, and the two other nurses, Kay Christie and Anna May Waters were the real nurses involved in this episode. All their dialog and characterization, however, is fictional. The Teia Maru and the Gripsholm were the real ships involved in the repatriation of the internees. The chronology of the trip has been slightly changed. The Fort ships built in Montreal were real. The chronology of their construction has been changed. I would like to thank my editor, Rachel Starr Thompson, for a fine job. Any errors that remain in the manuscript are my own. I would also like to recognize the support of Trinity Fellowship in Friendswood, Texas as they have long affirmed my writing. Finally, I gratefully thank God for my wife Gail, my closest friend and companion, and for my family who are loving and gracious supporters of my work.

1

Chapter 1: The Teia Maru

Helen startled awake in the rolling darkness of the ship. The

Teia Maru, built for 400 passengers, now held 1530 repatriated

civilians plus crew. Even so, Helen reflected, it was less

crowded than the prisons in Hong Kong. At Camp Stanley

she had shared one toilet with eighty other women.

She rolled to her side and sat up on the narrow cot, only

inches away from her friend Anna May Waters. The single

women had been placed on the main deck, in the large public

compartments of the converted liner. Helen was grateful she

was not down below where the noise and stench were worse.

Through the windows, she could see a trace of orange dawn

on the starboard horizon.

Still headed north then, Helen thought. She wondered when

they would reach the mythical neutral port they had been

promised four weeks earlier when they boarded the ship.

As she sat on the edge of the cot, trying to get up the

courage for a solo trek to the women’s bathroom, she

realized the dawn was beautiful. At Camp Stanley she had

been confined to a tiny room whose narrow window faced a

filthy courtyard. She rarely ventured out. Her routine was an

BOB DEGRAY

2

endless cycle of fitful sleep, standing in lines for thin soup

and moldy bread, waiting even longer for the single toilet, and

working many hours in the infirmary, providing nursing but

no medicines to fellow internees. Helen watched several die

from complications of malaria. She herself came down with

the disease shortly after she was moved to Camp Stanley,

contributing to the sense of delirium and death that pervaded

her months there.

Here, though still under the hateful Japanese eyes, she had

begun to awaken a bit. Here was the cool sea breeze, morning

and evening, as the ship steamed its placid way around the

Orient. Here were the flaming dawn, the infinite colors of the

sunset, and the countless stars in the deep black night. Here

she had begun to sense a little more the presence of the God

she had tried to cling to these twenty-two months.

She stood and wrapped herself in her coat. Well, not my

coat, she thought. The coat had belonged to a much larger girl

who . . .

Helen averted her thoughts. What had happened to

Pamela was too horrid to think about. Her suffering was

thankfully brief, but the dim, dark stains on the coat still cried

out to Helen like the blood of Abel.

The coat was too warm for the tropics, but it shrouded her

shape. Not that there’s much shape left. Hunger and fear had

whittled her down to skin and bones.

The Japanese guards were lounging in the hall. She

hesitated. No, she thought, I have to keep going, face the fear just a

little longer.

She stared down at the floor as she walked past. It was

safer not to make eye contact. Some of the Japs’ shoes, she

noted, were scuffed and worn. At the start of the war they

had been constantly shined. The guards back then had

REPATRIATION

3

delighted in making the nurses do this dirty work. Now most

of the guards were dispirited, their brutality muted. Except

for the few now bent on revenge.

“How did this happen?” Helen asked. The man on the

infirmary cot winced in pain as she attempted to gently clean

the wound.

“It’s weeks old.” He grimaced. “A Japanese guard in

Singapore took a disliking to me. Used to beat my back with

his crop. When that only made me pray more, he finally took

up a sharp rock and . . . did that.”

The rock had missed the man’s spine but torn a huge

chunk of flesh out of his lower left back. He had boarded the

Teia Maru with the internees from Singapore with his waist

bound in a bloody bandage. Doctor Ralph from Camp

Stanley had urged him to come to the clinic. They didn’t have

much in the way of supplies, but they did have a small stash

of clean bandages found in a Red Cross box.

Helen bit her lower lip as she gingerly swabbed out the

open, ulcerating wound. The smell alone told her it was

grievously infected. She wished she had a bottle of Dakin’s

solution, but there was none.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked, hoping to

distract him.

“Pete,” he grunted. “Pete Miller.”

“You were a missionary?”

“Aye. And I still am, I hope. I’ve been in China for only a

few years—” He winced again as she dug a little deeper into

the soft, pus-filled flesh—“but I’ve been sharing Jesus for

thirty years, ever since I came to faith in Jesus in Toronto.”

“You’re from Toronto?”

BOB DEGRAY

4

“Aye. Couldn’t you tell by my accent? Same as yours, eh.”

“You’re right,” Helen said. “Since the war began we’ve

been in Montreal.”

Miller twisted, with evident pain, to look at her. Helen

half-turned away.

She hated it when men noticed her. Now.

“I thought you seemed familiar,” he said. “What did you

say your family name was?”

“I didn’t.” Helen considered the wounded Canadian for a

moment. What do I have to be afraid of? “But it’s Chandler.”

The man’s talk stopped as they both concentrated on a

particularly deep pocket of infection. He sucked in a breath,

and Helen resisted the urge to back off. Oh Lord, heal this man.

When he spoke again, Mr. Miller asked, “Robert

Chandler? And Margaret?”

She started at the sound of her parents’ names. “Yes. You

know them?”

“Only a little. I think I met all of you before I moved to

China. How is your family? Do they know you’re coming

home?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard a word from them.”

Anna May and Kay Christie had received the occasional

letter through the Red Cross, as had most of the C force

troops. But nothing had ever come for Helen. For the

thousandth time she wondered if any of her letters had gotten

through—wondered, and prayed that her father would

forgive her. Her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Miller said.

“I think I’ve done all I can here. I’ll get the doctor to come

and look at it.”

REPATRIATION

5

A few days later Helen lay again on her cot, waiting for the

breakfast horn. Even the food was a little better here than in

the camp, as if the Japs were ashamed of how emaciated their

civilian prisoners had become. But the fruits and vegetables

they had taken on in Singapore were mostly rotten.

“How are you this morning?” Anna May asked. She and

Kay were just returning from the toilet. Helen gave a brief

prayer of thanks to God that He had allowed the three of

them to stay together. They had left Canada in 1941, three

women on a troop ship with the nearly two thousand men of

the C force, sent to strengthen Hong Kong. Watching out for

each other was a habit.

“Hungry,” Helen said, and the three women laughed.

Anna May had answered that way most of the last six

hundred days, and the other two had made it a cliché.

The sun had just flared over the horizon when she heard

singing. That was probably Pete Miller and his fellow

missionaries. She had been cleaning his wound every day,

though it was not much improved. He had invited her several

times to early morning prayer on the stern deck, but she had

so far refused. The Japs often watched the prayer meetings,

and she instinctively avoided their cruel eyes.

But this morning she was drawn. She walked quietly down

the narrow corridor that led to the open deck, then hesitated

for a long moment when she saw two guards at the door.

Finally she ducked her head and went past them.

The group in the stern included Pete and several other

Protestant missionaries, a few civilians, some Catholic nuns,

and even a priest. Pete had told her they shared a desire to

worship Jesus, and their faith had drawn them together

despite their doctrinal differences.

They were finishing the first verse of a familiar hymn:

BOB DEGRAY

6

“When sorrows like sea billows roll / Whatever my lot, thou

hast taught me to say / It is well, it is well with my soul.”

Whatever my lot, Helen thought. She was sure the hymn

writer had never been subject to her lot. Still . . .

“Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

/ Let this blest assurance control, / That Christ hath regarded

my helpless estate, / And hath shed His own blood for my

soul.”

Images of the last two years flashed through her mind: the

pain, the torment, the shame. Certainly she had been buffeted

by Satan, tried over and over. She had often failed these tests,

losing all grip on hope and peace. Yet her suffering did not

change the fact that Christ had shed his blood for her soul.

She was able to join in the third verse:

“My sin, oh the bliss of this glorious thought! / My sin,

not in part but the whole, / Is nailed to His cross, and I bear

it no more . . .”

Bliss, she thought. How long has it been since I’ve felt anything

like bliss? Yet, an echo of old joy began to creep into her

heart. Christ had paid the cost of her sin and shame. Nothing

could change that or undo his forgiveness. Despite the

sorrows of her life, the fears that still crippled, there was a

place for joy.

When the hymn ended, a nun began to murmur what

Helen recognized as the Magnificat: “My soul doth magnify

the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour. For

he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden.”

Helen looked up at the beauty of the sky and sea as the

Teia Maru chugged north, and she had to admit that Christ

seemed to have regarded their hopeless situation. Not only

had he saved her from her own sins, he seemed to be

rescuing her—all of them—from their degrading captivity as

REPATRIATION

7

well. Thank you, Lord Jesus, Helen thought.

But then the fear stabbed her again. She, Kay, and Anna

May, the nurses from C force, were not civilians like these

others. Surely the Japs would figure that out, send them back.

At that moment, one of the worst guards stomped up to

the group. “No,” he said, “stop singing.” For whatever

reason he selected Helen, grabbed her by the arm, and swung

her roughly to her feet. She cringed at his touch. He pushed

her between her thin shoulder blades. “Cabins!” he shouted.

“All return cabins!”

Helen shuffled quickly back to her bunk, but as she went,

she heard shouts among the crew. A missionary walking near

her translated: “Submarine,” she said. “They’ve sighted a

periscope.” The ship sped up and canted violently into a turn.

Helen stumbled down onto her cot, where Anna May and

Kay were sitting. “Someone thought they saw a torpedo

track,” Kay said.

“Oh Lord, regard our helpless situation,” Helen prayed.

8

Chapter 2: The Fort Resolve

“No, we haven’t heard a word,” Lillian Chandler told her

friend Penny as they walked down the streets of Montreal to

the United Shipbuilding yard. Lillian and Penny had known

each other slightly in Toronto but became good friends after

both families moved to Montreal. Recently they had signed

on at the shipyard as welding inspectors. Penny was short,

with red hair and a million freckles, a contrast to tall Lillian

with her wavy dark hair.

“But wasn’t there a rumor that they were all going to be

exchanged?”

“My mother checked with the army, and they say they

don’t know a thing.”

Penny took Lillian’s arm. “I’ll keep praying, Lilly,” she said

as they reached the tall wooden gate of the shipyard.

Lillian checked in and went to the busy dock where the

Fort Resolve, the last ship to come down the ways, was being

fitted. As she prepared to board the ship, she spotted her

father standing on the main deck, talking to a foreman and

gesturing at a drawing. He looked tired. After the triumph of

launching the Fort Romaine in only fifty-eight days, he should

REPATRIATION

9

have taken a rest, but he just kept pushing. Lillian was sure he

saw her, but he didn’t meet her eye. In fact, he looked away.

When she’d hired on, he told her she would receive no

favoritism from him. She didn’t think a smile would

constitute favoritism, but she and her siblings had received so

few since Helen left, she couldn’t really be sure.

Robert Chandler glanced up from the drawings and saw

his daughter enter the work yard with her friend. He looked

over at the shift clock. Yes, they were on time, but only by a

minute or two. He would have to speak to Lillian about that

again. Didn’t she know there was a war on?

He turned back to the table and pointed to the blueprint.

“How many times are we going to get this wrong?” he asked

the foreman. “The reason we can build these ships so fast is

that every piece goes in at just the right time. Now you’ve

welded a bulkhead that clearly says ‘weld after gearbox

installation,’ and you’ll have to cut it out and weld it again.”

With a huff of frustration, he straightened up. “Let me know

as soon as it’s out of my way.”

He straightened his tie as he crossed the gangway to the

rough building that housed his office and drafting room.

Moments after sitting down, he found himself muttering

under his breath. He’d taken home some drawings to work

on the previous evening and left his drafting tools on the

kitchen table. And his lunch. Now he’d have to get them.

Robert fought the steam rising behind his scowl and

pulled a stack of cost estimates toward him. He’d do this now

and go home at lunchtime.

BOB DEGRAY

10

Two hours later, Robert turned onto Milton and hurried

to the apartment house, a once-elegant red brick three-story.

Years ago he would have enjoyed a walk like this, exulting in

the cool autumn air. A sudden memory of Helen as a toddler

discovering the crunch of the autumn leaves caught him

short, but he pushed it away. That was before the war, before

his little girl took that fatal decision to fight the battle he had

been only halfheartedly engaged in. Now there was no time

for maudlin memories, no time for hopeless hopes. Only time

to make a difference.

The worn litany rolled through his head as he entered the

apartment. Maggie stood quickly when he came in. She was

tall and thin like Helen and Lillian, but her hair was greying,

and she wore it in a severe bun.

She had been writing at the table, her Bible open in front

of her. Did the woman actually spend her whole day this way?

No, the apartment was clean and quiet, and he could see the

laundry on the line out the back window. He really couldn’t

accuse her of sloth.

“Robert,” she said, “is something wrong?”

He gestured at the side table where his tools were neatly

stacked. His lunchbox was gone. “No, I stupidly forgot my

tools and my lunch. Where is it?”

“I put it away, but it will only take me a moment to put

something together. Can you stay and eat?”

“No, I . . .” Robert glanced at his watch. He had a few

minutes to spare. “Well . . . I am hungry. Maybe I’ll eat before

I head back.” He glanced at the quiet apartment. “Where are

the girls?”

“They were invited to play at the Mayfields. Back around

six.”

The Gazette sat neatly by his place at the table. The lead

REPATRIATION

11

story described the invasion of Italy. “Do you think Louis is

involved in this landing?” he called into the kitchen.

Helen came into the dining room with his plate: cold meat

and bread, sliced peppers and tomatoes, all laid out

individually. He liked it better that way than in a sandwich.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said. “His last letter was

from someplace in the Mediterranean.” She gestured at her

journal. “I was just praying for him.”

When she left to pour milk, he snatched up the journal

and glanced at it. Yes, prayers for Louis . . . and for Helen.

He put the book back down. How could Maggie hold out

hope? They hadn’t heard from Helen in months. Almost a

year. By now, in that tropical hellhole, under Japanese

brutality, his frail little girl was almost certainly . . . yes, best to

face it head-on, . . . dead.

“Have you heard any more about a prisoner exchange?”

Maggie asked as they sat down. “Jennie Engels said there was

a story in the paper, but I can’t find one.”

“What does it matter?”

“Matter? It’s our best hope for Helen.”

Anger and despair wrestled for control of Robert’s chest.

He beat them down, but they leaked out as a slammed fork, a

raised voice. “There is no hope for Helen.”

He ticked off points on his fingers. “We haven’t heard

from her in a year. She’s an officer, not a civilian, and so not

eligible to be exchanged. She’s in the hands of the same

Japanese who . . . who . . . brutalized Nanking. And she is

imprisoned under conditions that kill strong men in days. I’m

sick of your hopeless hope.”

He stopped, then inhaled through his nose, picked up his

fork, and forced himself to take the last bite. “And now, I’ve

got to get back to work. If I can’t save her, at least I can

BOB DEGRAY

12

avenge her death by doing my little part to win this war.”

As he stood, he finally glanced at his wife. Pain was etched

on every feature of her face, her mouth drawn down, eyes

glistening with tears that ran down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry . . .” he said. “. . . sorry.”

When Lillian walked in, the apartment was unusually quiet.

Her younger sisters, despite the war, were usually great at

filling the place with noise and laughter.

“Is anybody here?” Lillian called.

“I am.” Her mother came to the kitchen door. Her face

was unusually somber.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Your father and I … had a little

disagreement.”

“He was here?”

“Yes, he came home for some drawing tools and a quick

bite. It was rather nice, really, since the girls were off visiting.

We sat together and talked.”

“And that made you cry.”

“Now don’t be thinking bad thoughts about your father,”

Mama said. “It was my fault. Talking about Helen upsets him

. . . But it’s so lonely being the only one in the family who

holds out hope.”

“I have hope, Mama,” Lillian said, though she knew it

wasn’t always true.

At that moment the buzzer sounded. Lillian jumped. An

unexpected buzz could only be bad news. Louis? Lillian

thought. Helen?

“Maybe the twins forgot their key,” Mama said. “I’ll go let

them in.”

REPATRIATION

13

“I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need . . . well, all right.”

They reached the ground floor landing together. Through

the glass they could see a man in uniform. “Oh, no,” Lillian

whispered. Fear clutched her, squeezed the breath out of her.

What if Helen was . . . dead? What if her letters of apology

had never gotten through? What if that horrid scene she’d

made was the last thing Helen remembered? A new flush of

guilt heated her skin as she thought of how petty and childish

her threats had been.

Her mother pulled open the door with sudden resolve. It

was Captain Sheffield, the army liaison to the Canadian

Department of External Affairs.

“I’ve got a telegram, Mrs. Chandler.” He handed her the

thin envelope.

“Oh, no,” Lillian and her mother said together.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to explain it to you.”

Lillian’s mother nodded, her face white with anxiety. But

while Captain Sheffield looked appropriately solemn, Lillian

didn’t sense that he was a man about to announce terrible

news.

“I know you’ve heard rumors of an internee exchange

with the Japanese. When you came to me in August, I was

unable to comment. But I can now tell you that an exchange

seems to be on. According to the Japanese, the Canadian

civilians at Camp Stanley have been placed aboard a ship

heading to a neutral port.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Mama. “Hope at last.”

The officer seemed taken aback by the comment. “Yes”

he said. “Hope.”

Suddenly, his face took on a brisk, businesslike

appearance. “Of course, we have no confirmation that

BOB DEGRAY

14

Lieutenant Chandler is on board. As I said before, she is not

really a civilian in the legal sense, though it is possible the

Japanese have mistakenly classified her that way. If you are a

praying woman, Mrs. Chandler, pray that they don’t reclassify

her as an army officer. And pray that this Japanese ship

makes it through Allied waters. Our American allies are

swarming, and a white cross on the side of the ship might not

stop them from launching torpedoes.”

“Oh no,” said Lillian.

“We’ll be praying,” said Mama. She looked at the ground

for a moment, then up. “Captain Sheffield, can you do us a

favor?”

“I’d be happy to try, ma’am.”

“Could you possibly stop down at the shipyard and give

Robert the telegram? I’m afraid he might not believe it from

me.”

The officer raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly. “Yes

ma’am. How much longer will your husband be down there?”

Mama managed a wan smile. “Probably all evening.”

Robert sat at his drafting table and stared through the dirty

window as the lights came up, bathing the Fort Resolve in

electric brilliance. He knew he should be heading home, but

the pile of work drew him like an alcoholic’s bottle. He

reached for another drawing and taped it to the table. Like all

the Fort ships, the Resolve was turning out a bit different from

the standard drawings. The main generator had come in on a

completely wrong base, and rather than send it back at great

delay, he was reworking the generator room platform to

match.

But in the quiet of the empty room, his heart was far from

REPATRIATION

15

quiet. Every beat flashed a different image across the cinema

screen of his brain. Helen at six staring with utmost

seriousness at the tiny baby her mother had brought home.

“Daddy, she’s so beautiful.” At ten running with wild

abandon into her father’s arms as they explored the meadows

along the shores of Lake Simcoe. At fourteen, already tall and

thin like her mother, begging to be allowed to volunteer at

Toronto Western Hospital. “I just want to help people.” The

tears when her first young man dumped her. “Am I too plain,

Daddy? Am I too serious?” The proud moment when he

fumbled her nursing pin onto the collar of her stiff new

uniform.

But just as quickly, the images turned dark. The pang of

fear when she announced she wanted to join the army. The

months of painful silence. Then the sudden announcement

that she had accepted a posting to a tropical clime. The vivid

newspaper descriptions of Nanking. The caricatured

imagination of ravening Japs tormenting, tearing, holding

down . . .

And the images of himself. His clenched fists and anger

when she insisted on going in spite of his warnings. The

shame and guilt when he made her leave without seeing him.

Why? Why? Why had he . . .

He came to himself at a sharp, hard pain from his left

hand. As he clutched it to himself, he realized he’d been

beating it against the drafting table. My God, there might be

something broken. What did they call that? A boxer’s fracture?

At that moment there was a knock on the office door

behind him. Who . . . ?

Captain Sheffield poked his head into the room. “Mr.

Chandler, are you here?” The young man seemed dazzled by

the single bright light over the drafting table.

BOB DEGRAY

16

“Yes, Captain, I’m here.” Robert spoke through clenched

teeth. A messenger from the army. Was this the moment all

his pain had pointed toward?

“I have a telegram,” Captain Sheffield said. He handed the

folded flimsy to Robert, who took it with his right hand and

shook it open. He stared at the dense jumble of unfamiliar

names and abbreviations.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Is this saying that . . . that

she’s on a Japanese ship?”

“Yes, we believe so. Apparently the Japanese have

included the three female nursing officers in this civilian

exchange.”

“Are you sure? This seems too good to be true.”

“We can’t be sure. There is a danger that their army

commissions will be a snag. Your wife indicated you were a

praying family. I would recommend that.”

Robert sighed. I’ll have to let Maggie do the praying. “Thank

you, Captain.”

As he packed his briefcase for the late walk home, a new

litany was playing in his head. Too good to be true. It can’t be true.

There is no way those beasts will let her go. Too good to be true.

17

Chapter 3: The Gripsholm

It was late October before the endless ocean to the east was

replaced by land, a dense green jungle on low hills.

“Mormugao,” some of the passengers said, “Portuguese

India.” A missionary who had served there said the words

they’d been waiting to hear for weeks. “It’s a neutral port.”

The next day they turned, coasting between wide

headlands, and entered a beautiful harbor. High on a hill to

the south stood an austere fortress, below it a white-tiled

town and a long wharf.

They anchored behind the breakwater and waited. And

waited. One day, then two, then three. The food on board

was becoming steadily worse, but the Japanese captain

refused to come alongside the wharf until the neutral vessel

showed up.

“No, not yet. The harbor is as quiet as a morgue,” she told

Dr. Ralph as she came back into the infirmary. They had

seven patients who would not be ambulatory when the

transfer to the neutral ship finally happened. Four were

malaria cases. A series of relapses had plagued the ship for

about a month. A fifth was an apparent kidney failure, the

BOB DEGRAY

18

sixth a prolonged case of “camp lethargy,” and the last was

Pete Miller. Despite daily treatments by Dr. Ralph, Pete’s

wound had refused to heal, and the infection had spread.

When he wasn’t wracked with fever, the missionary

brought joy and peace to the infirmary. Helen had discovered

that he could quote whole chapters and books from the

Bible, and he encouraged her in the practice of memorization

as well. “Hiding God’s Word in your heart,” he called it. He

had noticed Helen’s fear of the Japanese, and almost every

day he took Helen’s hand and prayed for her to cast her

anxieties on the Lord, to be strong and courageous, to find

peace and rest.

But today the fever was bad, and Dr. Ralph had asked her

to bathe the man with cool water. Only there was no cool

water. With the end of the monsoon temperatures had

soared, and the ship was like a steam bath. The water from

the few taps that ran was nearly hot. Helen was reduced to

waving the wet rags back and forth for several minutes in the

slightly cooler shade before applying them to the sweaty

man’s forehead and arms.

“Lord, please be with this good man,” she whispered,

“and raise him up to further serve you. Let better care be

available on the next ship.”

That evening, Helen stood beneath the awning on the

main deck and enjoyed the evening air, which was finally

starting to cool. The sun was setting over the Indian Ocean,

casting long shadows from the western headland across the

harbor. It reminded her of sunsets on Georgian Bay, when

she and her father and Louis went camping and canoeing.

REPATRIATION

19

The sudden realization that she might actually make it

home—that she might actually see him again—sent a wave of

shame across her skin. She shivered and hugged herself. How

could he ever love her again after what she had done . . . after

what had been done to her?

She wrenched her attention away from those memories

and focused on the sunset. High in the darkening sky, the

evening star appeared. Venus, she thought. Daddy, you taught

me the sky and the planets and the love of God’s world. Mama, you

taught me to love Jesus and others. And now she dreaded seeing

them. Where had it all gone wrong?

She turned from the sunset and went into the cabin. Anna

May and Kay were sitting on opposite bunks, head to head,

talking intently.

“There you are,” Kay said. “We need to talk.”

Helen sat next to Anna, creating a tight little circle.

“Kay overheard the Japs talking today,” Anna whispered.

“She thinks they plan to keep us.”

“I definitely heard them mention your name, Helen. It was

Squinty and Colonel Crop.” All the Japanese had nicknames,

derogatory or descriptive. At the mention of Crop, Helen

shivered again. Rumor said he was the one from Singapore

who had wounded Pete Miller. Squinty was from Hong Kong

and was one of the ones . . . one of the worst. Why had they

been talking about her?

“Squinty’s remembered that we’re army officers,” Kay

insisted. “They’ll never let us off this boat.”

“You have no proof of that,” Helen whispered. “They

could have been talking about something else . . . my care of

Mr. Miller in the infirmary. I think Crop was the one who

injured him.”

“But what if I’m right? What will we do?”

BOB DEGRAY

20

“Can you swim?” Anna May broke in. “I think I could

swim to the headland. Then we could seek asylum after the

Teia Maru departs.”

Helen looked out the window at the shadowy horizon.

“Three years ago I could have swum that, I think . . . I’m not

so sure, now.”

Kay shook her head. “No, no . . . I’m sorry. I can’t swim.”

She took a deep breath. “But you two can go if you want, and

I’ll take my chances.”

“No,” said Anna May and Helen together.

“We agreed long ago,” Helen said, “that we would stick

together. We’ll just have to take our chances after we dock.”

Helen had trouble getting to sleep that night. Why were

the Japs talking about her? She imagined a long line of

civilians shuffling slowly through the Jap identification check,

then taking lighthearted steps down the gangplank of the Teia

Maru. But the dream turned to a nightmare when she arrived

at the front of the line. The officer checking the ID was

Squinty, and as she handed him her passport, he began to

shake his head, eyeing her greedily. “No, no officer allowed.

You must stay on ship. Return with me to military prison.”

In the dream she broke free and ran down the gangplank,

only to find Squinty standing at the bottom. He tackled her

and threw himself on top of her . . .

“Nooooo!” She woke herself with the scream.

Anna May crossed the narrow gap and held her. “It’s

okay,” she said. “It’s only a nightmare.”

But lately nightmares came true. “Lord Jesus, help me!”

Helen whispered.

REPATRIATION

21

Near midnight on the fourth day, the Gripsholm, a Swedish

liner, appeared at the mouth of the harbor. It was ablaze with

white lights, marked with red stripes and the word “diplomat”

to indicate its protected status. There would be very little

danger of being torpedoed in the next leg of their journey. So

bright was the light that Helen shielded her eyes.

The next morning both ships pulled up beside the long

wharf of the Murmagao dockyards. Though about the same

age and size, the Gripsholm seemed like a ship from heaven

next to the dingy, dark Teia Maru. The captain of the

Gripsholm insisted that his new passengers be fed and made

comfortable ashore so that his crew could clean the white

ship before they boarded.

Temporary fencing was set up, and the Allied citizens were

led down the gangplank to a sheltered waiting area where

tables were set with clean linen and floral centerpieces. The

Japanese translator emphasized that this was not the official

transfer of internees. They were still in Japanese custody. The

American and British diplomats had arranged for a huge

meal, with platters of fresh fruits, vegetables, and cold meats,

as well as tea and coffee. The American children were thrilled

to find cold bottled Coca-Cola, the first they’d had in two

years. The more seasoned adults warned them not to eat too

much at first. “Your stomach will not tolerate it.”

While they ate, they watched fifteen hundred well-dressed

Japanese civilians board the Teia Maru. Many of them

appeared dispirited and reluctant, a sharp contrast to the

ragged, boisterous Americans and Canadians.

As the transfer finished, all the officials of both ships,

along with the diplomats from Goa, got into a long

discussion. The rumor spreading through the waiting area was

that one of the Japanese internees had jumped or fallen from

BOB DEGRAY

22

the Gripsholm en route. The ship had searched for days,

fruitlessly. Now the Japanese refused to hand over all the

Allied internees. They insisted on taking one back.

The rumor was confirmed when the diplomats came into

the waiting area. The British ambassador, who was the senior

diplomat present, whispered with Dr. Ralph, the unofficial

leader of the internees. Then he cleared his throat for

attention.

“What you have been hearing, I’m sorry to say, is true.

The Gripsholm has delivered one less than your number. I’m

afraid that in order to move the process forward, we’re going

to have to ask for one volunteer from among you to return to

Japanese-held territory until we can arrange another

exchange.”

Immediately a weak voice said, “I’ll stay.”

“Who was that?” asked the diplomat, turning to seek out

the source of the voice.

“Me. I’m Pete Miller.” Pete was sitting in a deck chair near

Dr. Ralph and the other infirmary patients. Helen felt her

heart rise in her throat. No, he’ll die!

Dr. Ralph apparently felt the same. After a whispered

discussion with Pete, he returned to talk with the diplomats.

Finally he addressed the crowd himself. “Most of you are

aware that Pete Miller has a wound that refuses to heal. Some

days, like today, he’s quite well. But tomorrow he may be

back in the throes of a wasting fever. If he stays behind, he

may die. Is anyone else willing to stay?”

Helen felt frozen in place. The thought of staying on this

ship, alone with Squinty and fifteen hundred other Japanese,

was abhorrent—a nightmare too cruel to even dream. She

knew she couldn’t do it. But surely one of the single

Americans or the other missionaries would volunteer?

REPATRIATION

23

But then, who was to say their fears were any less gripping

than her own?

Several discussions broke out among the internees, with

some apparently trying to persuade others to volunteer—or

not to. In the end the diplomats decided to keep talking

overnight. All the prisoners traipsed back onto the ships that

had brought them. The walk across the gangplank to the Teia

Maru felt like a descent back into the pit. Helen was not the

only internee who had more nightmares than sleep that night.

The next morning the British diplomat came aboard and

reported that nothing had changed. Someone would have to

stay. Pete Miller had been talking to Dr. Ralph in his every

waking moment to the effect that he was likely to die

anyway—why not give someone else the chance at life?

Dr. Ralph was not persuaded, but in the end he saw no

alternative. He acceded to Pete’s request.

Helen cleaned Pete’s wound one last time. Among the Red

Cross supplies the Gripsholm had brought was a good quantity

of Dakin’s antiseptic, and Dr. Ralph hoped the Japanese

would keep treating Pete. “My life is in God’s hands,

Doctor,” said the missionary, “but thank you for all you’ve

done.”

Finally the internees had to line up on deck. This time the

Japanese carefully checked every paper, every passport, and

the line moved with glacial slowness. Kay, Anna May, and

Helen had decided to risk the checkpoint with the agreement

that they would break for the side of the ship if told to stay,

taking their chances with a jump into the oily water of the

harbor. “You two will just have to hold me up,” Kay

whispered. “Nothing new there.”

As they had feared, the two Japanese guarding the

gangplank were Squinty and Colonel Crop. They looked sour

BOB DEGRAY

24

at the prospect of losing all their prisoners. But when Kay

reached the front, nothing was said about her papers. So too

Anna May. The two waited on the gangplank for their friend.

Helen could not lift her eyes, but stared down at the scuffed

Japanese shoes as she thrust her papers forward.

“Helen Chandler,” a Japanese voice said.

“Hai,” said another.

And she was through.

A feast was again laid out on the white tables of the

holding area, but few ate. Everyone was anxious to get safely

on the Gripsholm. Once again, the long line of slack-

shouldered Japanese walked by, slowly entering the Teia Maru.

Helen imagined Pete Miller, alone in the infirmary.

Lord, let him live, she prayed.

Finally their turn came. They eagerly formed a line that

moved slowly forward as the American guards and officers at

the top of the ramp checked their papers again. This time

Helen felt only a twinge of fear. But still, when she reached

the top of the ramp, she could not raise her eyes. The

Americans’ shoes were much squarer in the toes, and

brilliantly polished.

She thrust out her papers. The men whispered for a

moment, and fear rose in her throat. Finally she heard a

familiar accent. “Aye, she’s one of ours.”

Helen looked up to see a Canadian officer, a Royal Navy

lieutenant, holding her papers and smiling through the full

beard that only his service allowed.

He came to attention and snapped off a salute. “Welcome

aboard, Lieutenant.”

25

Chapter 4: The Fort Esperance

Maggie Chandler slipped quietly from the bedroom where

Robert was beginning to stir. He would be up soon and off to

work. Maggie quickly prepared him a hot breakfast and a cold

lunch to carry.

Robert was rubbing his right hand with his left as he

clumped into the room. It was a habit he seemed to have

picked up lately. “I wish they would turn up the steam. It’s

cold as ice in that bedroom.” He sat at the table, dug into the

hot plate of eggs Maggie set in front of him, and sipped at the

coffee. “This stuff is terrible,” he said.

Maggie smiled. Robert had been complaining about her

coffee for nearly thirty years, but the war had given her ample

reason for a poor product.

She knew she should just leave it alone, but she couldn’t

help herself. “Oh Robert, I wonder where she is?”

He set the coffee cup down with a thump.

“How am I supposed to know where she is? I don’t

believe she’s on that ship. They won’t have let an officer,

even a female one, out of their clutches.” He sighed and

slumped in the chair. “I can’t bear to think of the horror and

BOB DEGRAY

26

degradation she could be going through. To me, it’s better to

think she’s dead.”

“Oh no, Robert!”

“So don’t try again to infect me with your false hope.” He

looked away, his face drawn and hard. “It’s no good. It’s too

good to be true. It will only lead to more pain. She’s dead.”

“I won’t believe that.”

“Well, I do. Anyway, I’ve got work to do. I can’t fill my

head with fantasies.”

He stomped from the kitchen and noisily put on his coat

in the entryway. “I’ll be home late. I’ve got meetings all day

and drawings to approve.”

After he left, Maggie retrieved her Bible and journal from

the shelf by the stove and sat heavily in the kitchen chair.

“Oh, Lord, why does this have to be so hard? So long?”

She turned to a new page and wrote “November 25th,

1943” in her flowing script. Then she began to pour out her

heart to God.

A few weeks later, Lillian burst into the apartment. “Mom,

Mom, you’ll never guess what I just saw!” Lillian seemed

hardly to touch the ground.

“Your mother has gone to bed,” Robert said from the

table. “A movie?” He looked up from the paperwork he was

doing for the commissioning of the Fort Esperance.

“No, before the movie,” Lillian replied. “Penny and I saw

a newsreel from America. It was about the Gripsholm, the ship

Helen’s on.”

“The ship you think Helen’s on.”

She ignored him. “They were in Brazil, in Rio de Janeiro.

They got off the ship and were cared for in the city. There

REPATRIATION

27

were all kinds of people—businessmen, families, priests and

nuns, missionaries. There was one little boy, only eight, who

was looking for his father in America. His mother died in

Shanghai.”

Robert looked away and tried to appear disinterested. But

he could not quell the longing in his chest. “And did you see

Helen?”

“No,” she said. His heart deflated like a crushed can.

“But,” Lillian insisted, “she has to be there.”

“She doesn’t ‘have to be’ anywhere,” he said. “She’s an

officer, not a civilian.”

“Oh, Dad!” Lillian took a moment to compose herself.

“Anyway, they said the ship was headed to New York next

and might be here by December 15th.”

“Two weeks? Not likely. Wouldn’t our beloved Captain

Sheffield have told us if it was so?” He looked up at the clock

and said in a kinder voice, “It’s time for you to go to bed.”

Robert saw Maggie out the door early the following

Saturday and settled down to do a little work. She was

meeting with the church ladies’ auxiliary to plan the

decorations for the Christmas season. Given the rationing

and the shortages of almost everything, Robert expected it to

be a short meeting.

A few minutes later, Robert heard noises from the

bedroom Lillian shared with Pauline and Susan. It sounded

like fighting. He went to the doorway.

“You two are just so messy! It’s like living in a pigpen!”

Lillian said.

“What’s got into you?” Pauline asked hotly, speaking as

usual for both twins.

BOB DEGRAY

28

“Nothing’s got into me. But if Helen’s coming home there

will be four of us in here. We need to clean this mess. We

need to get ready.”

Still apparently unaware of her father standing in the door,

Lillian picked up a crumpled dress off the floor and threw it

at her sister.

“We can’t let her find us like this! I promised I would keep

her room clean.”

Robert stepped in. “Lillian, calm down. Even if she’s on

that ship, she can’t possibly get here for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Lillian said. “Two weeks . . . Yes, of course.

What was I thinking?”

She collapsed onto her bed and laughed thinly. “Somehow

I woke up this morning and thought she’d be home any day. I

couldn’t think of anything to do to get ready except . . .

clean.”

Robert watched Lillian compose herself. “Don’t you have

to go to work?”

Lillian started. “What time is it?”

“Eight-fifteen.”

“Goodness! Penny will be here in fifteen minutes.”

A few minutes later Lillian ran out of her room and

quickly ate a bowl of cold cereal. “I’m sorry I’m such a case

this morning,” she said as she went out the door.

“It’s all right,” he said. “We’re all feeling a little anxious

right now.”

Robert felt like a mental case himself. He couldn’t block

out the anguish, whether he pictured Helen in Japanese

clutches or tried to resign himself to her death. The idea that

she might be safely aboard the Swedish ship and even now

closing on in on New York he dismissed as a fantasy. He

turned back to the table. But to his surprise he found himself

REPATRIATION

29

on his knees by the chair.

Lord, I can’t do this, his heart cried. He didn’t want the girls

to see him like this. I’ve driven Helen into a hell I can’t even imagine.

I’ve grown distant from my Maggie, sent Louis into battle. Lillian is

losing it. I don’t even know how to pray.

He rested his head against the seat of the chair but felt no

release from the turmoil. A few minutes later he stood

wearily. He felt like an old man. Work, he thought.

As he stood, he spotted his wife’s journal beneath her

Bible on the sideboard. How does she do it? How does she put up

with me? With this? Stay faithful to God? He looked over at the

girls’ room, closed and quiet, before walking over and picking

up the thin book. He had always loved his wife’s handwriting.

November 25th, 1943. Philippians 4:6. Lord God, I

want, today, to let my requests be made known to you

and give you thanks. I ask that you give me the peace

you promise as I trust you with these burdens. Allow my

mind to be filled with things that are true and honest,

pure and lovely, virtuous and praiseworthy, not on

worries and fears.

For Helen, Lord, I ask that she be on that ship, and I

ask you to keep her safe and guard her health as she

travels. I thank you, Lord, for the strong will and the

strong constitution you have given her, and for her

dependence on you.

For Louis, Lord, I ask also for safety, and that there

in a far country he would see your hand. I ask that he

would cry out to you and trust you in all danger and

hardship. Be his rock, his fortress against the enemy. I

thank you, Lord, that you have brought him safe thus

far, and I thank you that he is yours.

BOB DEGRAY

30

For Lillian, Lord Jesus, I pray that you would allow

her to see past her anxiety, to the truth and beauty of

your Word. I ask that you would give her faith to be

strong and grace to be faithful.

Finally, Lord, I pray for Robert. You know how

deeply buried is his fear and his love, and how distant he

has become. Lord, he won’t talk about it or even touch

me. I pray that you would allow him to touch you, to

give you his fears and find peace and hope. Thank you

that he is faithful and hardworking, and though he is

angry, he is never violent.

Robert fingered the little bone on his right hand. He had

worked hard not to let on that the injury was there, but it was

a constant irritation. Maybe that was why he had stopped

touching his wife. Or had it been long before that?

Lord Jesus, let her words be mine . . . her heart be mine . . . her

prayers be mine.

Two weeks came and went, and there was no sign of the

ship. Captain Sheffield had stopped in, several times now, to

assure them that everything was okay. “They were delayed in

Bermuda by the departure of a huge convoy, and now they’ve

been delayed again by weather. We expect them by

Christmas.”

31

Chapter 5: The Laurentian

The Gripsholm rose and fell, canted and twisted in the worst

storm yet. As a lash of rain darkened the window, Helen

longed for the tropical waters they’d left behind in the

Caribbean. Even coming around the Cape of Good Hope

they’d had good weather. But for the last week, ever since

they had finally left Bermuda, the power of the stormy

Atlantic had been making itself known. Helen wished she had

eaten less breakfast. She had regained almost twenty pounds

in the seven weeks aboard the Gripsholm, but she’d lost some

of that in this one rough week.

“Lieutenant Michaels says we’re only two days out,” Anna

May reported as she stepped into the cabin the three women

now shared—the cabin with the locking door. “Even with the

storm, we’re making headway.”

Two days, Helen thought. That would put them in New

York on December 23. If the train to Montreal left the next

day, she might be home for Christmas. She wondered if her

family was expecting her. The newsreel reporters in Brazil

had assured them every theatre in America would see the

footage. But with all the news coming out of Italy and the

Pacific, would their story even be told?

BOB DEGRAY

32

She wondered for now the thousandth, thousandth time

how her father would feel about the news. She remembered

telling him that she had to accept this assignment to the Far

East. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be surrounded by Canadian troops.”

He’d said, “You won’t be safe. You’ll be vulnerable. You’ll

lose your life, or be injured or worse. I was in Europe in

1915. I know how brutal men can be. And the Japanese are

the worst. It’s no fit place for a woman. I love you, Helen. It’s

my duty as your father to keep you safe from that danger or

shame.”

“Oh, Dada, I love you too. But I’m grown now. I’ve got

to do this.”

Helen stood back as the internees crowded the rail. They

had made the promised time and arrived in New York

Harbor just at sunset. As they steamed past the Statue of

Liberty toward the Hudson, the lights of a twin lighthouse

flared on the New Jersey highlands. Helen was as excited as

anyone about the arrival, but she instinctively retreated from

the crowd.

This arrival seemed very different from the other ports

they had called on since boarding the Gripsholm. So many of

the internees were Americans, straining to see if their loved

ones were on the pier. A band on the shore was playing

patriotic songs. Helen teared up when they launched into a

brassy rendition of “Joy to the World, The Lord Has Come,”

then other Christmas carols. She remembered Dad singing

carols with his girls every Christmas in his fine tenor voice.

The memory seemed worlds away.

Once they finally docked, the debarkation went quickly.

The crowd at the base of the gangplank surged and ebbed like

REPATRIATION

33

waves upon the shore as loved ones were met and families

quickly dispersed.

The US had arranged for the rest of the internees to stay

in New York City hotels for the night. Tomorrow trains

would leave for points all across the US, and the Canadians

would be placed aboard the Laurentian of the Delaware &

Hudson line. They should be in Montreal by dinnertime.

Helen knew by the weight of joy and dread that filled her

that her dizziness was something more than getting her land

legs back.

The snow was beautiful but frustrating. Helen, Anna May,

and Kay were seated together with Dr. Ralph in a second-

class compartment on the Laurentian. They had enjoyed a

leisurely night in an American hotel and been escorted to

Grand Central first thing in the morning, where the silver-

and-blue train stood steaming in the lights. The first half of

the trip up the Hudson Valley was beautiful, lovely even in its

bare winter garb. But north of Schenectady it had started to

snow, and soon the train was forced to slow. And then, just

before Glens Falls, they pulled off onto a siding. Some time

later, the conductor walked through the car saying,

“Derailment ahead. Military train. Working to clear it.”

“Well, ladies, I hope we can all stand one more night away

from our families,” Kay said with a weary smile.

“But it’s Christmas Eve,” Anna May said, not bothering to

hide the tears in her eyes. “Helen, at least, could have been

home for Christmas.”

“She may still be home for Christmas,” Dr. Ralph said. “It

just depends on how long they take to clear up this mess.”

BOB DEGRAY

34

Helen tried to allow the thickly falling snow to speak peace

to her soul, as it always had when she was little. But the joy

and the fear that had fought for her heart all day did not want

to give way to peace, and the added uncertainty of being

stuck so close to home defeated it entirely. She just wanted to

get off this train, but she didn’t know if she would walk north

or south—toward home or away from it. So she sat with her

face glued to the window, sometimes leaking a tear down her

pale cheek, sometimes smiling softly at the thought of Lillian

or her sisters or her mother.

And sometimes curling up in a wave of shame that seemed

almost feverish.

Maggie stood uncertainly at the entrance to the apartment.

They had waited as long as possible before leaving for the

10:00 p.m. Christmas Eve service. Everyone had hoped they

would get new word of the arrival of the Laurentian, a reversal

of the last piece of news: Captain Sheffield had been by twice

during the day, first to tell them that the train would be

arriving a few minutes late due to the snow and then to say

that it would not arrive until the next day because of a

derailment on the line.

Robert had spent the day at work. He had promised to

meet them at Windsor Station, but Captain Sheffield had

called Robert each time there was a delay. He had come

home a few minutes earlier. He looked to Maggie like he had

been in a wrestling match all day.

“Did you have a rough day at work?”

“What? No . . . well, yes, I guess.”

“Are you coming to the Christmas Eve service?”

“You haven’t heard anything more from Captain

REPATRIATION

35

Sheffield?”

“No. He said they won’t be here until tomorrow.”

“Let me change.”

Lillian had spent the day loudly denying any hope of

seeing Helen while frantically preparing her room, her hair,

her dress. She was in the bedroom now making some

modification so minor that Helen, if she did show up, would

never notice it.

“Lillian, we’re waiting at the door,” Maggie called.

“Just a moment, Mom.”

“We don’t have a moment. The service starts in twenty-

five minutes.”

They descended the stairs and stepped into the cold night

air. It had snowed about three inches, and Montreal was

hushed and beautiful. They turned right on Sherbrooke

Avenue and walked quickly to cover the two miles to church.

Several minutes later a Canadian Army staff sergeant came

to the door and pressed the buzzer repeatedly.

Lillian tried to sort out her feelings as they entered the

pretty stone building. The prospect of seeing her sister

twisted her insides. She had never told anyone about the

juvenile scene she had made when Helen left, but the painful

memory of her last words to her sister was always with her.

“I hate you,” she had said. “If you leave me, I’ll always

hate you.”

“I’m sorry, Lilly,” her sister responded, “but I have to do

this.”

“You’ll go away and forget all about me.”

“No, I won’t, little sister,” Helen said. “And Mom and

BOB DEGRAY

36

Dad will be here for you.”

“They don’t matter. You can’t leave. I’ll never forgive

you.”

Lillian had soon repented of those words, but she had no

idea if her long letters of remorse ever reached Helen. None

of the few letters they received from Helen even mentioned

Lillian’s name. Maybe Helen had just blocked every memory

of Lillian completely from her mind. Maybe she had

forgotten her. Or maybe she wasn’t really on the way back to

Canada at all.

The platform at Windsor Station was almost empty when

the Laurentian huffed to a stop. By some unspoken

agreement, Helen and the others who lived in Montreal got

off first. But only one person was greeted by a rush from his

family, a businessman named Michael Legrand. Helen heard

his wife say, “They told us for sure you wouldn’t be here until

tomorrow. But we came anyway.”

Her heart sank. Her family didn’t know she was here.

At that moment an army captain stepped onto the

platform with a dark-haired civilian. He gathered the

returning internees around him. “My name is Captain Walter

Sheffield, and this is Andre Lambert, from the Department of

External Affairs. First, to those of you from Montreal, my

sincere apologies. We were told that the line could not

possibly be reopened before tomorrow, and we passed that

along to your families. We are contacting them now to

correct the error.”

He then told those who would be traveling to other parts

of Canada that train reservations were being made and they

REPATRIATION

37

would be housed in the Windsor Hotel overnight. The

External Affairs officer repeated the announcement in

French.

Anna May, Kay, and Helen barely had time for hugs and

assurances that they would see each other again as soon as

possible. Then her two companions were led away. She

watched them go with an unexpected desperation. They had

been her only family through the worst time of her life. Now,

as she sent them off to families who would welcome them

warmly, her heart exulted for them even as it felt the onset of

a new kind of loneliness.

Captain Sheffield gave each of the Montreal group a brief

update on their family, and some family members arrived as

he spoke, giving rise to shouts, tears, and laughter.

Finally, he turned to Helen. “And you must be Lieutenant

Chandler.”

“Yes sir,” she said, backing away as he stepped toward her.

It’s all right, Helen told herself. He’s not Japanese.

The man stopped. “Welcome home,” he said and gave her

a crisp salute. Helen should have saluted first, but she’d

forgotten.

He looked strangely crestfallen. “I’m sorry your family

isn’t here. I’m afraid it was I who told them there was no way

you would arrive tonight. When Sergeant Girard went to the

apartment just now he got no answer.”

“No answer?” she said, momentarily confused. Could

something have happened to them?

“I know your family is religious. Might they be at a

Christmas Eve service?”

“Christmas Eve? Yes . . . yes, sir,” she said. Of course. It

was Christmas Eve. “They would have gone to . . .

Kensington Presbyterian. Perhaps I should walk up there . . .”

BOB DEGRAY

38

“No, no, Lieutenant Chandler. I have my car. I’ll take you

there immediately.” He picked up her small bag, a gift from

the Red Cross, and led her out of the station.

Helen had only been to Kensington a few times, just after

the family moved here from Toronto. The old church stood

cold and grey, but warm light glowed behind the big circular

stained-glass window.

“Thank you, Captain Sheffield,” Helen said. “I’ll be fine

now.”

“No, no,” said the captain. “I’ll accompany you inside.”

They went through a side door into the empty entryway.

The sanctuary doors were closed, but they could hear singing.

“Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; / Hail, the incarnate deity,

/ Pleased as Man with Man to dwell, / Jesus, our

Emmanuel!”

They quietly opened the side door between the verses.

Helen peered into the golden candlelight and recognized her

mom and dad and the others, together, a few rows from the

front. She was suddenly seized with reluctance.

“They’re here. I’ll just stay back until the service ends,”

she whispered to Captain Sheffield.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Yes, thank you.”

He nodded. “All right, then, good luck and God bless.

We’ll be in touch in a few days.”

“Thank you.”

Helen sighed as the captain finally turned away. I can’t do

this, she thought. I can’t face . . .

She slid into a pew behind all the other worshippers. O

Lord, how is he going to react? He said I was putting myself in line for

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39

horrors I couldn’t even imagine, and he was so right. He said I would

suffer shame, and I have. He can’t forgive me. I know he can’t . . .

She tried to focus on what the minister was saying. “The

Word became flesh and dwelt among us. When the world was

wrapped in brutality and darkness, Jesus came to us. When

the world was wrapped in fear, Jesus came to us. God is with

us tonight because Jesus was born in Bethlehem. His

presence, long awaited, came to that dark place, and his

presence is with us in this dark time.”

God is with us, Helen thought. Jesus, be with me.

They sang “Silent Night,” and the minister pronounced

the benediction. The congregation rose and began to shuffle

out of the pews, wishing each other a happy Christmas.

Helen saw Lillian turn and look her way. She knew she was

only a silhouette against the open door behind her. With a

slight movement of her hand, she waved.

“Mom!” Lillian screamed. “She’s here!”

Mom spun away from the woman she was greeting.

“Helen!”

The family covered the distance to her pew in moments.

Mom somehow arrived first, enveloping her in a hug. Helen

stiffened but hugged her back. Pauline and Susan plowed into

them from both sides.

“I’m here,” Helen said. “I’m home.”

She broke away to see Lillian standing just behind Pauline,

her face streaked with tears. “I’m sorry,” her sister was saying.

“I’m so sorry.”

Helen almost said “For what?” Then she remembered, as

in a distant dream, the scene where Lillian had promised to

hate her if she left. Apparently Lillian had been burdened by

the words all this time.

“It’s okay, Lillian, It’s okay.” She reached out across

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40

Pauline and took her sister’s arms. “I’m back. It’s all over.”

Even as she spoke, she felt the iron resolve, the forced

fortitude that had held her together, dissolve.

Then her father appeared behind Lillian. His face was pale,

his mouth open. He looked like someone seeing a ghost.

Which, I guess, he is, Helen thought.

Just before her consciousness fled, she felt the wave of

heat and cold wash over her. Of joy. And shame.

41

Chapter 6: 623 Milton Road

Maggie was thankful that once Helen woke from her faint,

she seemed peaceful. She didn’t want to talk about her

captivity. Instead, when they got home she sat down on the

couch with Lillian to her left and the twins tucked in to her

right and asked what they had been doing these last two

years.

“But we wrote you dozens of letters,” Pauline said.

“Well, I never received even one of them. Some folks did,

but the Japs were unpredictable. They never gave me

anything. I knew better than to blame you.”

She was sad to hear that Louis was in combat, even

though the Italian campaign seemed to be going well. “I’ll just

have to pray even harder for him.”

It was past midnight when Helen began to nod off.

“We’ve saved your bed the whole time,” Lillian said to her.

“It’s been awful messy, but it’s not now.”

“I’m sure I’ll sleep the best I have in years,” Helen said.

And she did. She slept past noon the following day,

despite the noise of the twins loudly awaiting their Christmas

presents.

BOB DEGRAY

42

“It’s not much of a Christmas, I know,” Maggie said, “but

we will wait for Helen to celebrate with us.” Robert had told

Maggie they couldn’t buy presents for Helen, but Lillian had

defied him and gotten her sister a beautiful silk scarf. “It’s my

money,” she’d said. “Anyway, it’s made from used parachute

fabric.”

The family gathered around the pretty little Christmas tree

Robert had taken Pauline and Susan to pick out. Helen sat

curled up on the couch. She seemed to be fighting some fear,

and she kept her head down, not looking at her father.

Lord Jesus, Maggie prayed, there’s something wrong here. Please

help us.

Robert pleaded fatigue and headed for the bedroom not

long after Christmas dessert. He was dismayed when Maggie

slipped through the door while he was still standing in front

of the dresser.

“You haven’t even given her a hug,” she said.

“I tried. She was stiff as a board.”

“Have you asked her why?”

“No,” he said.

He couldn’t tell Maggie that he’d known it would be like

this. She hated him for what he’d said. She wanted nothing to

do with him. Despite her safe return, she was lost to him.

He groped for words. “You know we had some harsh

words when she left. I don’t think she’s forgiven me.”

“Have you asked her to forgive you?”

“No.” Why should she? He’d broken their relationship

when he should have been supporting her valor, her

commitment to serving Jesus. He could see that brokenness

in her eyes.

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43

But all he said was, “I think she needs a little space. And I

still can’t really believe she’s back. You know what I’ve been

saying to myself. I can’t just turn on the feelings I’ve been

shouting down.”

Maggie took him by the arms, looking at him with her sad

brown eyes until he had to drop his. “You’ve never really

succeeded in shouting them down, Robert. You think I don’t

see your pain? But God has brought her back. The two of

you need each other.”

Christmas night, Helen slept another twelve hours. “I’m

just exhausted, I guess,” she said. “I don’t even have strength

to eat.”

Maggie had accepted that at the time, but it was now

midmorning on the third day and Helen was not yet up.

“She’s asking if Dad has gone to work,” Pauline said. Susan

nodded.

Maggie stirred the pot of oatmeal and wished she had

something sweet to put with it. Lord Jesus, she prayed, give me

the ability to care for my daughter.

Ten minutes later, when Helen still hadn’t come out,

Maggie went into the bedroom. The bedclothes were a mess,

and Helen’s thin frame lifted them barely at all. Her face was

flushed.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” Maggie

said, alarmed.

“I never feel well,” Helen replied. Her voice was a

subdued mutter. “That’s what prison is all about.”

“Well you’re home now, and I’m going to get you better.

Let me feel your forehead . . . why, you’re burning up.”

“No, it’s just a little fever.” Helen weakly pushed her

BOB DEGRAY

44

mom’s hand away.

“It’s big by my standards. You’ve caught something. I’ll

have the doctor in.”

“No, Mama. I don’t want to go to the hospital. I don’t

want to leave you.”

“You won’t have to leave.”

“Mama . . . if anything were to happen to me . . . tell Dad

I’m sorry, so sorry. I know he can never love me anymore,

after what I’ve done . . . after what has happened. But I’m

sorry. I never meant it.”

Maggie’s heart nearly broke. “What are you talking about,

dear? He doesn’t hold anything against you. He loves you. . .

.”

But Helen was drifting into a fevered sleep.

“No,” she whispered, “he can never love me now.”

Dr. Carhart examined Helen that same day. “Well, I’m not

really sure,” he said, “but it may be malaria.”

Oh, no, Lillian thought.

“I have a colleague who served in the tropics. I’ll ask him

to look at her.”

Lillian threw herself at her sister when the doctor left. “Oh

no!” she cried. “Can’t malaria kill you?”

Helen struggled weakly away from her.

“It can,” she said, “but it usually doesn’t. I’ve had it

before. It was awful, but I survived. It’s usually not as severe

the second time.”

But by the time the new doctor came, Helen was in a bad

way. She was alternating between chills and sweats; couldn’t

keep anything down, not even Mom’s famous chicken broth;

and seemed delirious most of the time. She kept saying things

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45

like “No, don’t touch me! Leave me alone!” But from time to

time, Lillian noticed, she also cried out for her mama and

even her dad.

Lillian watched and listened with her brow permanently

creased, wishing she could do something to make it better.

The new doctor, a Brit who had retired to Canada, looked

Helen over, took her pulse, touched her forehead. “It is

malaria, of course,” he said. “I’ll take a blood sample, but I’m

certain. Saw it often enough in China. Not very common

here. Could take a day or two to locate some quinine, but it’ll

bring her around quick.”

Lillian refused to go to work. She sat by Helen’s bed,

bathing her forehead in cool cloths. God, she prayed, help

Helen to get better. The relief at finding that Helen had not held

Lillian’s stupid words against her was now replaced by fear

that she would lose her again.

Mama came in with a glass of water and a little bottle.

“The medicine’s just arrived. We’re to make her swallow this,

one every eight hours. If she stops being able to swallow the

pills, she’ll have to be admitted to hospital.”

Lillian let Mama take the chair. As she helped Helen

swallow the pill, Mama prayed, “Lord Jesus, pour out your

love on this girl. Heal her of the malaria and of whatever has

weakened her heart and will.”

“How was I supposed to know she was sick?” Robert

asked. “I’ve been at work all day.”

“Well, you know now,” Maggie said in an unusually harsh

tone. “You ought to go see her.”

Reluctantly, Robert went to the bedroom door. Lillian

stood up from where she sat next to her sister and stepped

BOB DEGRAY

46

quickly across the room. “I think she’s asleep, Daddy. But

she’s still tossing and turning.”

“I’ll come back—”

“No, I’ll go help Mama with dinner.”

Without saying a word, Robert tiptoed across the dark,

silent room. Helen lay flat on her back, a single sheet

covering her, soaked in sweat. Her eyes were closed, but her

head twisted back and forth unrhythmically. A bowl of cool

water and a rag stood on the bedside table, but Robert

hesitated to pick it up. Instead, he sat on the little wooden

chair. Oh Lord, help her.

“No!” she suddenly cried out sharply. “No, stop!” She

squirmed and tossed, her hands clenched in fists.

“No! Help! Daddy! Stop!” The words were indistinct. He

couldn’t tell if she was crying out for him or against him.

He reached over and took the cloth from the bowl,

squeezed it gently in his large hand. But as he reached for her

forehead, she turned away with a sharp, indistinguishable cry.

He put the cloth back and stood.

When he reached the kitchen, Maggie looked at him with a

question mark on her face. He nodded toward the bedroom.

“Her fever’s up again, I think.”

Three days later Helen sat in the bed and sipped a little

broth. “Have I been off my head, Mama?” she asked.

“Well, you haven’t been your normal self.”

Helen looked away, wondering whether she was well

enough to pursue the thought. “What have I been saying?”

she finally asked in a whisper.

Her mother hesitated a long moment. “Well, you mostly

seemed to be fighting something. You screamed ‘no’ and

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47

‘leave me alone,’ over and over.”

Of course, Helen thought. Lord Jesus, couldn’t you spare my

family this?

Maggie was watching her with an expression Helen

couldn’t read. Her dear mother—so faithful, so gentle even in

the way she spoke. “I’m sorry, Mama . . . I’m so ashamed.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, dear.”

Memories, seared across Helen’s brain, burst like

fireworks. “Dad warned me. He told me they were brutal . . .

that I wouldn’t be safe. But I went anyway. And then all this

happened . . . the worst happened, Mama.” She held her

mother’s gaze long enough to see tears of comprehension

well up. “Over and over.”

“Oh, my poor girl. I’m so sorry.” Her mother tried to

embrace her, but Helen’s shame and memories stiffened her.

Mama didn’t let go. She held her daughter’s stiff frame and

waited for her to speak.

“He warned me,” Helen finally whispered. “He warned

me.”

Mama said, “You need to talk to him, dear. He loves you.”

“No. I can’t.” Helen roused herself. “And neither can you.

Don’t say a word about this, Mom.”

“She’s getting better, Robert, but she’s still weak as a

kitten.”

Robert grunted. He wished he could find an excuse to go

to work, but there really was none. Even under these urgent

conditions, all the shifts had New Year’s Day off.

Sensing that his wife was waiting for something, he looked

up. Maggie stood right in front of him with a bowl. “Take

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48

this broth and feed it to her.”

Alarm rose in him, pushing him into a corner. “I will not.

Why can’t you do it?”

“I’ve been doing it for a week. I’m tired. And I’ve got a

meal to fix.”

“Well, have one of the girls do it.”

“They’re all out. Down at the park. Sledding.”

“Can’t it wait for them to get back?”

“No. You’ve got to do this.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s your daughter.”

Once again, Robert walked reluctantly down the short hall

to the bedroom door. It was closed, but Maggie followed him

and gently twisted the knob. Opening the door on his fears.

Opening the door on his heart.

As he took a tiny step in, she placed her hand gently on his

shoulder.

I can’t do this. I can’t survive hearing her say the words I deserve. I

can’t survive having her hate me.

As his eyes adjusted and he saw Helen turn on the bed, he

thought, And I can’t survive without her.

Helen startled awake when the door opened. She’d been

trying to read a book, but it was too heavy for her, and finally

she’d just dozed off again. She caught a whiff of beef stock.

Good old Mom, she thought. She’ll fix me with broth yet. Actually,

eating was starting to sound pretty good. Thank you, Lord.

But when she looked, it was not Mom’s familiar silhouette

in the door, but Dad’s. Quickly she closed her eyes and

turned her head, pretending to be asleep.

“Helen . . .” he said quietly. “Sweetie, you need to eat.”

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49

Her heart flipped as she heard the childhood nickname.

She stirred and pretended to wake groggily. “Not hungry,”

she said.

“I know, but you need to eat anyway. Regain your

strength.” His voice was quiet, almost shy, not the voice of

the man she’d shamed but the one who had wiped away her

tears when she was little.

But you can’t go back to those days, she told herself. You can’t

undo what’s been lost.

She turned away, facing the wall.

“Helen . . .” He hesitated a long time. “Helen . . . I . . .

want to say I’m sorry.”

No, she thought. Don’t do this. I’m not strong enough.

“I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you when you left.”

Against her will, tears began to leak from her eyes.

“I’m proud of you for surviving the hell you went

through.”

I didn’t survive. If he had even the smallest notion of what

they had done to her, he would never say that.

“Helen?” He put the broth on the tray next to her bed,

reached out his hand, and put it on her shoulder. She bit her

lip to keep from screaming at the touch.

“Helen . . . no matter what you’ve done. No matter what

they’ve done. No matter what has happened, I still love you. I

will always love you.”

The pain and agony in his words tore holes through the

protective covering of her soul. But she still couldn’t move,

couldn’t respond.

He took his hand away and stood. “I’ll have your mother

come in and help you with the soup,” he said. His voice held

defeat, desperation, and just an edge of anger. He stood and

walked to the door.

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50

No, she thought. Don’t leave me. She suddenly saw him as

having tried desperately to bridge the chasm between them,

only to be rebuffed. She couldn’t turn, but before he reached

the door she said, “I’m sorry.”

He stopped. She spoke louder. “I’m so sorry. It was so

awful . . . I’m so ashamed.”

He stepped back to the bed. Now, with effort, she turned.

She saw the tears coursing down his face, knew that hers

were doing the same.

“Oh, Dada,” she said between sobs. “Forgive me.”

He knelt and offered her his arms. Once more the pain

and revulsion rose within her. But the need, the terrible need

for his love prevailed. She threw herself into his strong grasp,

buried her head against his familiar shoulder.

“Oh, Dada,” she said again, the sound muffled. “Forgive

me.”

“No, no,” he whispered. “You should forgive me. You’ve

done nothing wrong.”

“But the shame. The shame.”

“There is no shame in being the victim of evil.”

“But . . . but . . . you told me not to go.”

“I was wrong, Helen. How I’ve regretted those words! I

tried to keep you here, selfishly, when you wanted to serve

unselfishly. Forgive me.”

The last layers of self-protection and shame crumbled.

“Oh Dada, I love you . . . I’ve missed you so much.”

“Oh Helen,” he choked out, “I love you, little girl.”

He held her tighter.

And she was home.

51

About the Author

When Bob DeGray finished seminary in 1992 he vowed to never read a theology book again (a promise he didn’t keep). Even as he embarked on a now 23-year ministry to the people of Trinity Fellowship, he also returned to an earlier love, World War 2. He read great history, great fiction and the little stories that make the era endlessly fascinating. His fiction writing, including the soon-to-be-published full-length novel We Never Stood Alone, emerged at the intersection of the faith stories of a contemporary church and the cataclysm of the greatest war the world has ever known – God’s eternal battle for intimacy with His people. Much more information and a great deal of historical, spiritual and fictional reflection on the war can be found at Bob’s website, ww2christianfiction.com. Please visit the website and sign up for our e-mail newsletter. The website includes several articles on the historical settings for Repatriation